Smoulder
by Keelywolfe
Summary: Sherlock promised that he would quit smoking. John really needs to get it in writing. SLASH. John/Sherlock


**Title**: Smoulder  
**Author:** Keelywolfe**  
****Pairing(s):** Sherlock/John  
**Warning:** Smoking Kink  
**Word Count:** 1800

**Summary:** Sherlock promised that he would quit smoking. John really needs to get it in writing.

* * *

He smelled it before he even stepped into the flat. The smouldering burn of tobacco and paper as distinctive as a fingerprint and a firm indication that Sherlock had certainly noted his absence this time.

John sighed and pushed open the door.

Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa, his knees drawn up and his dressing gown open to reveal pyjama pants and a t-shirt. Held between his fingers was the slim line of a cigarette and the end glowed in a brilliant cherry-red coal as Sherlock took a long drag off it.

"You promised," John said wearily, setting the bags of groceries by the door. The better to level an accusing glare at Sherlock which he ignored, exhaling a thin stream of smoke

"I did," Sherlock agreed. "At some point you really must stop believing me when I make promises without some kind of written agreement involved. As I'm sure you've gathered, verbal promises are difficult to enforce."

"I'll remember that next time," John said shortly. He held out a hand, palm up. "Give."

His hand was perfectly steady, no hint of a tremor as he kept it there, watching Sherlock lift the cigarette to his mouth again. Watched him draw in a deep lungful of smoke, the perfect 'o' of his lips as he exhaled it again and the tremble of his lashes against his cheeks as he relaxed back into the sofa. Only then did his eyes flicker open, the cigarette twisting in his fingers as he held it out to John.

John plucked it away with two fingers, frowned at the burning tip, and then at Sherlock. He was watching John through half-lidded eyes, the flicker of his pale eyes moving from John's face back to the cigarette. Lingering on the cigarette.

"Oh, for God's sake," John muttered and it was something like a triumph to see those brilliant eyes widen as John lifted the cigarette to his own mouth. The filter was damp against his lips, warm from Sherlock's mouth as he took in a long drag. Tasted hot smoke, that first perfect breath of it as he inhaled an addictive cloud of nicotine and poison.

Exhaling was rougher than he remembered, coughing it back out in blurts. Sherlock was staring at him, lips parted, perhaps in a protest that he'd forgotten was going to make. John met his eyes, held them with his own as he took another puff. Inhaled deeply and held it, fighting back the cough. Bastard promised to quit and now he could sit here and watch John smoke his cigarette.

He exhaled the smoke slowly, savouring it this time. Christ, it had been years since he'd had a fag, and somehow he'd forgotten how glorious the simple act of it was. Slipping the damp filter between his lips, his mouth where Sherlock's had been, drawing the smoke out in a heated rush over his tongue and teeth. The burn of it in his lungs, holding it, just for a moment and then—

His startled exhale, directly into Sherlock's mouth against his own.

He could feel Sherlock inhaling it, the cool, drawing rush of his breath and John nearly coughed again, biting it back with fierce determination. Sherlock's hands were on his shoulder, holding him still as he took every bit of John's breath away from him. Barely, he was able to pull back, take one clean breath from the air between them.

"Sherlock—what—" His whisper was smoke-roughened, raspy with surprise.

"Do it again," Sherlock said, his voice was low and urgent.

John didn't move, his hand hanging limply at his side and he felt the heat close to his fingertips, the cigarette burned nearly down to the filter. Impatiently, Sherlock snatched it away from him, pressed the end gently against his lips. His eyes were burning hot, matching the heat at the tip as John automatically inhaled. The taste was deadened against his tongue, the flavour burned away but the heat of the smoke still rolled over it. Inhale, deep, thick rush of smoke and when Sherlock pulled the cigarette away from his mouth, John let it go, one thin trickle of smoke escaping before Sherlock sealed his mouth over John's.

Soft lips were parted against his own, catching the faint sound of surprise that rose in John's throat. Sherlock's mouth was warm, smoke-tainted, drawing in the breath from John until he had to inhale sharply through his nose, near dizzy from lack of air. Gone, it was gone, and John could smell the sharp bitterness as the cigarette burned down to the filter. Not a hint of the smoke was left and Sherlock's mouth was still firm against his own, the tip of his tongue running over John's lips as though to draw out the last taste.

John managed to pull back, just enough to murmur against those plush lips, "Sherlock—wait—"

"No," Sherlock whispered it back, shared words into the darkness of their mouths and his hands were as warm as his mouth against John's face, his fingertips grazing John's temples as he held his head still, dipping down and tasting his mouth again. Equalled tenderness and fierceness in the press of his lips, curling their tongues together in a slick twist. His eagerness now is an obvious contrast to his languidness of before, cigarette gone now that he has something to do.

John felt the edge of the sofa against the back of his legs before it even registered to him that they had moved, Sherlock backing him into the sofa, backing him into a damned corner and John could still taste the cigarettes, the taste cooler now, unpleasant without the smoke carrying it. He wobbled, unsteadily, as Sherlock pushed him back another step. Grabbed at Sherlock's shoulders in an ungainly effort at staying upright that was futile in the end as Sherlock only folded down with him.

Their mouths separated on the way down, John narrowly avoiding biting his tongue as Sherlock sprawled over him, straddling him, long legs on either side of John's hips. Pressing them tight together as he loomed over John and Christ, that mouth, ruddy and faintly swollen with kisses, prettier without a cigarette between them. His lips parted and John watched with a sinking sort of helplessness as he wet them, left a shine of spit behind. His eyes were keener than John thought should be possible, his own thoughts muddled and smoky, and whatever those too-bright eyes saw, Sherlock took it as agreement.

"Wait," John tried again and it cut off in an embarrassing sort of moan directly into Sherlock's sooty mouth.

There were layers of clothes between them, denims and trousers, Sherlock's more expensive togs cuddled close to John's cheap button-up, only their mouths bare against each other. It could scarcely be called a kiss anymore, lips rubbing against each other until John was wincing with each hot press, sliding his tongue against Sherlock's in obvious desperation.

Trying to hold on to Sherlock was like trying to hold smoke, he squirmed and moved, trying to get closer, to find a better angle that allowed their mouths to meet, teeth clicking together as he wriggled again and John was clutching at him with growing franticness, hands sliding over his slim frame, palming the sharp lines of his hips, sliding into the small of his back and locking there. Forcing Sherlock to arch back over his forearms and fuck, push his hips hard against John's.

John opened his eyes in time to see Sherlock tip his head back, the long, smooth line of his throat as inviting as an addiction, begging for John to lean in, catch a pinch of that pale skin between his teeth and suck a blush of colour into it. He could feel Sherlock catch his breath, a tremor against his mouth, enticing him to suck harder. Begging him to leave a bruise.

He fancied he could taste the smoke on Sherlock's skin; certainly he could smell it. The heavy flavour of cigarettes and salt, clean skin made filthy, and John licked a path up to Sherlock's chin to catch his mouth again.

"John—" It was gratifying to hear Sherlock hoarsely gasp his name, cutting it off with another kiss as John slid his hands down to cup Sherlock's arse. Tugging him in closer, forcing him to rock forward until they both groaned at the pressure, Sherlock's hands curled into fists against John's chest. His mouth went slack in surprise against John's; his tongue lax as John rolled his hips up, grinding them together. He felt it the second Sherlock lost control, the fleeting wash of it over his face as he shivered, biting down on John's lip hard enough that his eyes watered in sympathy.

Christ, wasn't that a sight, Sherlock Holmes shuddering and trembling above him, a faint whimper escaping him and all that posh smugness he usually oozed was lost in the flush of his cheeks, his untidy hair clinging to his damp cheeks. The jerk of his hips tight against John and John bit his lip, distantly noticing his mouth was bloody sore by now, and forced Sherlock to rock his hips roughly forward, one friction-brutal thrust that John had to shut his eyes again, his own groan hissing from between his teeth until he was gasping and trembling himself, Sherlock a heavy, dead weight in his lap.

Distantly, John felt Sherlock move and he didn't have the energy to protest. He didn't go far, his weight shifting but not moving from John's lap as he reached for something at the side table. It was only when he heard the raspy flick of a lighter that John finally opened his eyes, fighting the lassitude seeping into his bones enough to frown at Sherlock as he lit another cigarette, cheeks hollowing as he drew in one long, hard drag.

"Smoking is terrible for you," John husked out, watched as Sherlock tipped his head back and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. Sherlock looked back down on him, rubbing the filter against his lips for a moment before sliding it between them, drawing in another breath and then leaning in to breathe it into John's mouth. He inhaled automatically, tasting used smoke and Sherlock.

"I'll take my chances," Sherlock said into John's mouth before he reached over and crushed the butt out in an ashtray, his swollen mouth moving lazily over John's sore lips as he breathed into him, his tainted breath as warm as the smoke.

-finis-


End file.
